Caria felt it too now: the weight was no longer pressing down.
It was pressing in.
"This place," the Rotten-Heart said, looking around the circle, "was described to me as a vault. A failed experiment. A buried weapon."
Rhys shook his head once. "It was never buried. It was left alone."
The orc's dead heart thudded once—harder than before.
"And if I take one step more," they asked, "will it finish what was started?"
"No," Rhys said. "It will ask you to decide whether you were right to survive."
The pillars drew closer—not threatening collapse, but demanding honesty no binding spell could enforce.
The Rotten-Heart straightened.
For the first time since arriving, the authority drained from their posture. What remained was immense strength held in check by restraint learned the hard way.
"I have outlived my war," they said. "My people's borders have shifted twice since my death. The empire still pretends it remembers why I was made."
Their gaze lifted to Rhys.
